I'm kinda drunk, and watching trailer-perfection. Deal with it.

Feeling a bit tipsy right now (fucking 40 oz of Corona....who knew it'd pack as much of a punch, huh? Surely not I), so this really is a pointless post, but fuck-a-duck it. Was thinking of this trailer earlier today, how much I adored it, so I went back to Youtube to re-watch, four years later, for the shits and giggles of it. And yes, it still holds up. I'm not hesitant to say it may very well be the perfect trailer, and one of the best ever. Yes, I do think so.

And the movie itself kicked some ass, even though I hated on it for a good year prior to its release, simply because it was a remake of my all-time favorite movie. But well done, Zack Snyder and James Gunn....you, as the lame rap cliche goes, showed & proved.



Fuckin' tell me....if you'd never seen it before, and knew nil about it, you wouldn't rush out to see that shit based off this trailer. It's sickness, minus the antidote(s).

Night of the Living Mind(s): A Recollection

Feels like it was a decade ago, at the least. And, my inner-calendar being a bit loopy at times, it very well could've been that long ago. My greater sense insists that it was only four or so years in the past, so I'll just accept that as the proper chronology.

It was one of the best nights I've ever had just hanging out with friends. The funny thing is, though, I know for a fact that several of the others present that night would disagree and laugh at that statement. They hated it, or were just plain disinterested. Much rather be dancing on a chick, or pounding some Coronas, they were most likely complaining internally the entire evening. Not I, says the fly. More than content, I was in my total element, the scenario that best suits my preferences but rarely, if ever, surfaces.

There were six of us in attendance. The location, a friend's rather-nice, cozy apartment in an otherwise-seedy section of Jersey City. Starting out, it was one of those nights, those weekend darkness-falls time-killers when there's zero plan, futile options, and all that's left to do is hang around one generous (or desperate) friend's nook and shoot the shit, Russian Roulette style.

So, that's exactly what we did. In her living room, spread out on a couple of love seats and one large couch. If Quentin Tarantino were there, he'd have grabbed his camera and spun it around the room, Reservoir Dogs diner scene revisited. Never-before told stories from college experiences were shared (we all went to high school together, so college stories were, and even still are, the best ways to inform each other of new details); hypothetical, and simultaneously revealing, questions were fired away, the likes of "If you could either marry a beautiful, model-like woman but live unhappily ever after, or wed a plain-looking, humbly-pleasant-faced-and-bodied gal but have the greatest chemistry and mutual joy together, which would you choose?" (Of course, one friend in particular opted for the former, which surprised nobody but still managed to disgust everyone.)

The back-and-forth, get-to-know-each-other fest lasted a good four hours, and I loved every second. Is it odd to enjoy the presense of good friends, and do nothing but learn more about them, rather than simply avoid all personal connections, knock back some shots, and dance it up to overplayed radio hip-hop? This feels like I'm on a therapist's couch, it sucks, moaned one friend (or something to that effect, not a direct quote). Voiced by another: What a fucking waste of a Saturday night?

Obviously, that was the last time anything like that night ever happened. Granted, some of the people present then soon met their future wives, or longterm significant others, leaving the opportunity for repeat performaces at the mercy of peel-away-from-loved-ones discretion. Which doesn't exist, contrary to whatever your now-tied-down chum says to the effect of "We'll still hang out, man, I won't become that guy." A noble, appreciated, yet never-true statement. Don't believe the hype.

A fluke? Indeed. The product of boredom by some, and I'll-have-fun-doing-anything adapatability by others? Deinitely. But damned if I don't wish there were more time like it. The allure of hitting bars and inducing hours-later-hangovers disintegrates by the weekend, and so many time I wish I could just call some people over to the apartment, keep the big-screen TV shut off, and just talk all night. One or two beers in hand each, sure, but not to the point of "Shit, I'm fucked up, son. We need to make moves, find some bitches, get wild. Where we at?"

We're nearing our thirties now, son. A time when we should try less drink and more think amongst each other's company, don't 'cha think? No? Fuck it then, pass me that Bud Light Lime, and let's get it started.

If you can't inspire or engage them, join 'em.

Netflix Fix -- The Visitor

What a little gem of a picture. Been reading some awards buzz surrounding this one, which came out earlier this year to little fanfare but oodles of acclaim, particularly for its lead, Richard Kenins, who really is fantastic here. Without beating its views and points over heads, it raises some compelling issues about immigration, and the American "dream," beneath a strong (I hate to use this word, seems so cliche, but it fits so fuck it) human story about discovering yourself through unlikely people. Wow, that sounded like a movie poster tagline. I gotta stop reading those, pronto. But its true, though.

Some things justify themselves by simply existing....

Case in point: this trailer for Big Man Japan, which is actually getting a limited release here in first quarter 2009. I'm serious. Dead ass. Now, just watch:



Find (and roll) me a doobie and de-frigerate a couple Corona 22s, and this shit could end up being the look for a future Saturday evening.

Mood music for a "whatever" kinda day....

Everybody seems to be on that 808s & Heartbreak, or some other modern-day product. Today, though, these are the ones that are rotating heavily....







The makings of a good day, sound-wise.....hopefully tonight brings some excitement. Feels like an indoor dud thus far.....

Friday the 13th remake, full trailer....doesn't disappoint, surprisingly

New, full trailer for February's Friday the 13th remake:


Death by boat??? Awesome!

Looks like some fun, despite not blowing my mind away or anything. Pretty much what I was expecting, but in the meets-expectations-nicely sense. Didn't swayed me toward my typical "another horror remake I'm mad about" stance yet, which is good. Plus, as I was reminded by Bloody Disgusting, it redoes the whole body-countdown bit from the original's trailer, which is pretty cool.

Trailer for the 1980 original......


Man, '80s horror flicks just looked and felt so much nastier, sleazier, dangerous. Didn't they? Those were the days.....and yes, I realize I was only born in 1982. It's the small details. Right, Basil Fawlty?

Nazi zombies?? You already know where I stand....

.....and that's in uproarious support! Okay, so this does has a nice "garbage can" aroma to it, but how could you not be excited by Nazi zombies charging through snow toward a cabin of dimwitted doofs and some hot chicks? Well, I guess you could "not" by not being named Matt Barone and not having a soft spot for such a brand of schlock.

But, this one does have the Sundance Film Festival's seal of approval, so that means something, eh? No? Fuck off, then. I'm looking forward to it, anyway. Wanna fight about it?

Spotted over at Ain't It Cool News:

Norway's Dead Snow


***And just so there is nil confusion as to whether I'm really that effed up in the head to love all this bleak cinema and storytelling, here's the answer: negativo. To prove it, I'm posting a clip I saw at DListed earlier that warms my heart just thinking about it. It's a tear-starter for those who can't control their faucets, and visual proof of why dogs are the dominant domesticated animal. Case closed, sealed, and neutered. Now, how can you not love this?
--One pooch is hit by a car on a highway, but is then saved by a five-star-worthy dog that drags the injured canine off the highway. The stuff of Disney films, I tell ya:

Overlooked this year was....

......this movie. Been seeing its name popping up lately, most recently as one of the National Board of Review's top 10 independent films of '08. Figure, should show some earned love.



Came and went in limited release back in March. Had to trek to some grungy theater in downtown Manhattan to see it, but was well worth it. The great Sam Rockwell, being typically great; Kate Beckinsale, looking splendid as ever and showing that she's much deeper than the leather-wearing blood-spiller in Underworld; and should-be-my-girl Olivia Thirlby, playing the everyday suburban chick like only she can. A dark downer, well-directed and written by David Gordon Green, who followed this up with Pineapple Express, a stoner comedy of all things (nice diversity, sir).

Just a fine motion picture. Seek it out.

***Kate Beckinsale is fierce, isn't she? What a looker. And even though the movie itself was a fucking debacle of soul-shattering magnitude, Becks (that's what I'd call her if we shared an apartment somewhere and did nothing but make whoopie) and her lame-yet-oddly-sexy Transylvanian accent and skin-pressing wardrobe burnt my loins enough to endure the shitshow that was Van Helsing.

Learning something new, today.....

Do you have any clue who this "torch lady" is exactly? Until now, I was f'n clueless. Thanks to Neatorama, though, I'm in the know about the woman who's right arm has to be throbbing like a son-of-a-bitch by now, as well as the stories behind every other major movie studio's logo. If you're like me, this'll interest you nicely. If not, kick rocks.

Neatorama's film studio logo breakdown.....pretty informative stuff

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, post-screening thoughts....

This was a thick, heavy, sensory overload, so I'm holding any sort of definitive opinion until I've seen it at least one more time. But first impressions are the strongest, of course, and mine was definitely positive, and impressed. So that's saying something, I'd like to think. So here's me working out the kneejerk reactions, in type form. Enjoy, or not. Whatever.



David Fincher, one of my top three directors working today; Brad Pitt, one of my favorite actors in steady rotation. The past two times they've joined forces (Seven; Fight Club) were both mind-blowingly awesome, so understandably I had hopes for Benjamin Button about as high as Tommy Chong. For me to leave the screening feeling 100% satisfied, the film needed to be a love-spawn of Inside and There Will Be Blood, sprinkled with multiple layers of romance and optimism, though, being that this is an uplifter, not a downer. Which in and of itself is an event; Fincher has made nothing but dark, morally-corrupt, glass-is-half-dry flicks to date, so the notion of a Fincher love story is pretty compelling.

And that, essentially, is what we have here: a love tale, one where the man chases a woman's affections over years and miles, a la Forrest Gump and Jennnneee (Gump and Button were both scribed by the same dude, Eric Roth, actually). The man here, though, isn't a simpleton who swings a mean ping-pong-paddle...he's a dude who's grown up "unusual circumstances," born in year 1918, city New Orleans, as an elderly man in a baby's body and ages backwards, getting younger as everybody else escalates in calendar tallies. His birth mother dies during childbirth, and his father---horrified at the sight of a crying, wrinkly, monster-looking newborn---abandons the seed on the doorstep of an old-persons' nursing home. There, Benjamin is raised and given a roof, and it's also there where he meets Daisy (played in older phase by the always-graceful Cate Blanchett), the love of his life and the girl who'll dominate Benny Boy's heart and mind throughout his years as a tugboat worker and beyond. His quest to win her over is the heart and soul of the story.



The film, for all intensive purposes, is pretty astonishing, especially in a visual sense. Fincher and his camera/cinematography crew went in with some beautiful, absorb-as-much-as-possible-at-any-given-moment imagery. Particularly a sequence where the tugboat that Ben works on, named "Chelsea," has become a vessel for the American Navy during World War, and is bombarded by enemy forces one dark quiet night. Heavy gunfire and massive firepower sweeps through the boat, but the oncoming ammo sparkles with an extra glow that jumps off the screen, and the way Fincher shoots it, you're right there with the Chelsea's doomed passengers.

But as a whole, at least on this first viewing alone, I didn't head home feeling like I'd had my socks knocked clean off. Wasn't smacked around by emotional Godzilla-stomping impact like I'd hoped. Though, I'm suspecting this is because I was more taking everything in this time than allowing myself to succumb to the beneath-the-surface narrative-meat. The acting passes with flying colors---Pitt's restrained, subdued performance is just the right tone to give Benjamin a real observer's sense, which works best considering that we're seeing the double-sided coins of life, death, and basic mortality through his peepers. And Blanchett continues to be "old faithful," never less than spot-on, and even reaching unseen nothces of "sexy" here. At least to me.


These two really do have some great chemistry together. Undeniable.

The real star here is Fincher, though. As of now, he's my choice for Best Director come award season, and that's simply because I'm a biased stanboy. I love how, here and really also in his other works, he trusts his eye enough to remain steady shot after shot, flipping the fingery bird to quick cuts and frantic camera-movements and honing in as characters develop, and naturalistic actions commence. It's like, we're watching a painter patiently stroke a canvas (think my dude Bob Ross), and we're not worried about growing bored or disinterested because we know that he's efficient, and his end product will rock our shit.

Two great Fincher touches gave me the cheese-grin-syndrome more than others: 1) there's a nameless old resident of the nursing home, and Benjamin keeps bumping into him; rather than say "Hello," though, the geezer repeats himself each time: "Have I evet told that I was was truck by lightning seven times?" And each time, we're shown one of the seven Mother-Nature-issued-electrocutions, presented as an old silent film clip (sped up action, zero sounds to boot), giving the blink-and-you'll-miss-'em moments a Charlie Chaplin comedy feel, and 2) this extended "butterfly effect" setpiece in France, where Daisy is working as an acclaimed ballerina; after a show, she's hit by a cab in a back alley, a freak accident that crushes one of her legs and ends her career too-early. Fincher, visually, and Roth, narratively, approach this as a "wouldn't have happened if only this person would've done this one mundane thing a second sooner," showing the chain of otherwise-whatever events that led to the cab and Daisy arriving at the scene of the incident at the same exact millisecond.

I really have the hunch that a couple more intakes of Benjamin Button will only amplify my appreciation and praise. And its certainly a testament to the film that the seemingly-marathon-ish 2 hour, 45 minute runtime wasn't a factor; I've sat through flicks only 1 hour, 30 minutes that felt much longer than this.


Though it may appear to be so, Ben B isn't catching the holy ghost through a sweet two-step here.

For now, it's a must-see film that I'm definitely highly-respectful of, but more on a technical level than an emotionally-hitting one. I did hop on the train realizing one profound sentiment had blindsided my senses, thanks to your boy Ben B, and that's this: If given the choice, would you rather be born young and grow old normally, and be like Ben and be born old and grow younger? After seeing this, I know that it'd be best to keep things as we know them. Sure, being hatched as an elder seems nice---you get the ills and downsides of being high-in-age out the way early and when you'll feel them the least (arthritis, failing heart, poor hearing and sight, etc), and once you've survived the rough infant-to-toddler years, you're golden. But then, you won't be able to grow old with your loved ones, and you won't be able to raise your kids and watch them mature, because when they're like 18, you could damn well be 8. Think about it.

Can't forget, too....the makeup effects and digital wizardry on display here are fucking amazing. When Ben's an old man in a little kid's physique, it's still clearly Brad Pitt, same going for the character at nearly every age. I've read that they shot the scenes with "little people" (*cough* dwarf one, dwarf two, etc.) wearing green-scene-like masks, and then shots Pitt making several facial expressions, and somehow blended the two into one person. Crazy shit.

Stephen Colbert wins again....

Agreed.

808s & Heartbreak = some very impressive production ("Say You Will" and "Street Lights," namely), which is to be expected from him....but songwriting and "singing" execution both leave much to be desired. I get it, I get it, It's painful and from the heart. Admirable, but just not well-done in this case. Sorry slob-jobbers and apologists.

Shit to scratch your head to.....

Hitler and the Occult, on the National Geographic Channel....damn interesting. Admittedly, the word "occult" is what attracted me, but I'll also admit that while watching it my once-prominent wanna-know-more gene was woken up some, bringing me back to the days of grade school when I carried around Civil War books and showed them to my surprisingly-intrigued 4th grade classmates. I was pretty hardcore in old-time war studies, specifically the Civil War, a subject that my dad is extremely fluent with...like father, like son, they say.

But yeah, I'm a sucker for dark shit and supernatural topics, so "occult" was all the hook I needed. [I;m sort of like that freaky Goth chick you'd seen walking aimlessly in the mall, except I'm social and mix in grays and blues with my black] Quite glad I checked this NatGeoTv program, though. It's late and I'm too tired to go into detail, but it was all about how Hitler and the Nazi movement had then-secret roots in Pagan beliefs and occult-focused authors and mentors. The first day of the Nazi regime, in fact, came on a Pagan holiday...as did the last, when Hitler and Eva Braun both committed suicide. And then there was this S.S. meeting castle, which had a basement where a table would hold ritualistic sitdowns for Nazi commanders to convene.

It's all seriously horrifying and hard-to-comprehend. Seeing video of Nazi rallies and their slaughter never goes down smooth. More like a rock pill, with no cup of water in sight.

Another thing this special triggered in-mind is this obscure rap album cover, which quite truthfully may go down as one of my favorite album covers ever. Just for the sheer "huh?" force of it, and how unconventional and ballsy it was/is. It's from Goretex, one-third of the no-defunct and too-slept-on Brooklyn trio Non Phixion (The Future Is Now = shamefully underrated rap album right up there with Screwball's Y2K). Album title: The Art of Dying (as in, living is the "art of dying," being that every day is one step closer to your death....yeah, Goretex was a bit more morbid and twisted than, say, DJ Unk).

Fact: I was all about this album when it dropped back in '04, and frequently, to this very day, revisit in my work-computer iTunes with headphones firmly on....though, at that time, I was a closet fan of everything the whole Psycho+Logical crew put out, but I'll delve into their repertoire at a later date; that's worthy of it's own post. But check this album cover out, and tell me it's not some other shit (and kinda brilliant):


One thing's for sure---you've never, nor will you ever, see another album cover like this before/again. Am I right?

I remember when this album came out, some bored, lonely chap posted in the HipHopSite forums a detailed breakdown of each and every Pagan symbol and cult reference included in that shot. Goretex put tons of thought into it, it seems. What a weird dude. Not that there's anything wrong with that....

***This also reminds me of the Italian cult classic of depravity, 1975's Salo, or The 120 Days of Sodom....not a film I'll ever feel like enduring again (what a sick, nasty, appaling piece of cinema, but what a powerful one, in that, though), but one I'm kinda proud of having seen....Nazis were the perps in it, too. And, worth noting, Goretex has a song called "The Last 100Days of Sodom" on above-mentioned album. See how things all come full circle?

A movie named after a rather brutal sexual act....how 'bout that?

Been hearing about this one for what feels like a year now. Was a hit overseas in the UK, is said to get quite gruesome once shits hits the ceiling spinner. Reviews have been largely positive. Comes out here in limited sometime in January. I shall attend.

Donkey Punch (yes, the title refers to exactly what you're thinking of...)....enter your age to watch, it's one of those "R-rated" trailer, apparently. Don't ask why after watching, though:



***Speaking of which, I Spit On Your Grave is next up in my Netflix....arrives tomorrow. A film infamous for many things, one being the punch of the donkey. Nice.

50 days left, and counting.....

If you don't watch the show, then I'm sure none of that made any sense, and had zero effect.

Related fact: if you don't watch the show, you're a tool.

The Wrestler, post-screening thoughts.....

**UPDATE/M.B. NOTE: Somehow forgot to link this here initially, but this is a must-read for anybody even vaguely interested in Mickey Rourke.....just an awesome profile, by vet scribe Pat Jordan, from The New York Times = The Only New Rourke Story You Should Read

So, last week I wrote how Sean Penn's work in Milk was the best acting I'd seen all year, which, at the time, was the truth. But notice how I said was just now. Though still tremendous work by Jeff Spiccoli, there's a new thespian job sitting atop all others now, one that I genuinely can't see being ousted by year's end. I'll be seeing Brad Pitt in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button tomorrow, and Leo DiCaps next week in Revolutionary Road, so jury's out on both, but still, doesn't seem likely. And Frank Langella is certainly great in Frost/Nixon, but as great as my new numero uno? Not even close.

If there's any justice in H-wood, the man standing on the podium come March, holding that coveted Best Actor statue in hand, will be none other than Mickey Rourke, because the stuff he does in The Wrestler is just about the bravest and most heartbreaking character-acting I've seen in a long, long ass time. He's on screen for a good 95% of the film's runtime, and those few rare moments when he's not, you're sitting there impatiently awaiting Randy "The Ram" Robinson's return.



By now, the "amazing comeback," the "resurrection" claims being hurled toward Rourke are infamous. The Wrestler knocked socks and shoes clean off earlier this year at the big festivals, sparking very early word of award noms and career resurgence by way of steroids. Once considered one of our greates, most promising on-screen magnets, Rourke went to hell and back throughout the '90s, squandering the promise shown in some fuckin' powerful performances (Angel Heart, 9 1/2 Weeks, The Pope in Greenwich Village, etc.....all great, I'll soon be revisiting all) and becoming a pariah in the biz. He's been inching to a rebirth for a couple years now (best part of the already-quality Sin City = Mr. Rourke), but this right here is the stuff that standing ovations and jaw-drops are made of.

Then


Now


"The Ram" was once the biggest pro wrestler around, selling out Madison Square Garden and achieving Hulk Hogan-like fame. But as time went on, his relevance depleted, and 20 years after his biggest fight ever (versus The Ayatollah, at the Garden), he's barely making ends meet wrestling in community centers and grade school gyms to small-but-packed crowds of loyalists. He's lost it all, including the relationship of his now-teenage daughter (played by Evan Rachel Wood, Marilyn Manson's ex-piece), and the only person who seems to give a damn about him when he's not in tights and bashing skulls is an aging stripper named "Cassidy" (Marisa Tomei, looking finer and MILF-ier than ever).

"The only place I get hurt is out there," says The Ram, pointing away from the ring and toward the reality that brings nothing but failure, loneliness, and grief. He hates when people call him Robin, his birth name, while heart attacks and steel chairs are tolerable as long as he's in that rope-enclosed square.



It's all about how this guy who loves to wrestle has to come to grips with old age, impending retirement, and the lack of family and true friends he's acquired over the years, replacing all such connections with his in-ring work. Certain scenes really packed a pile-driving force for me: 1) early on, The Ram's locked out of his shitty trailer due to the not-paying of rent, so he sleeps in his rundown van, sipping a big can of Coors Light, popping painkillers and staring at old photos of his glory days....it's sad and stirring, 2) a back-and-forth cutting of moments, where we watch a post-match Ram get stitched and fixed up as he sits quietly, hiding his pain from others in the locker room; we then keep cutting back to 15 minutes beforehand, when he was fighting a redneck-looking slob in a No Disqualifications match in some unattractive community center, taking staple gun-shots to the chest and barbwire smashes to the head, which all leads to a pretty devastating heart-attack in the locker room, and 3) The Ram invites a neighborhood kid to come play video games in his trailer, an old Nintendo wrestling game that features The Ram but is full of cheesy 8-bit graphics and boring gameplay; "This game is so old," says the kid, who then goes on to tell The Ram about the new Call of Duty 4---"Call It Duty?" asks Mr. Ram, totally disconnected from modern times.

The hardest scene to watch, though, is his breakdown at work, after his daughter has totally disowned him and Tomei's character has rejected his/her feelings for one another. To help keep a roof over his head, The Ram works for an Acme supermarket, loading boxes. But to earn some extra hours he's also taking weekend shifts behind the deli counter. When his breakdown hits, he's behind said counter. One customer recognizes Robin as The Ram and insists on identity confirmation, which sends Ram over the edge. He punches a meat slicer, slicing off a chunk of his thumb, shouts profanities and anger toward the stunned shoppers, and trashes the market on his way out the door. The whole meltdown happens in a split second, catching you off guard with uncorked fury. It's rough stuff.

Really, though, every scene here works, especially the tough exchanges between The Ram and his daughter, which go from "I hate you, dad," to "Maybe my dad can change, I hope he can 'cause I miss him," downward back to "Fuck off, you're dead to me." Ms. Evan Rachel Wood deserves a hand-clap, too; she reams into her loser father so fiercely and believably that I almost shed some tears (I'm man enough to fess up) watching him face her cold truth and disowning.

Darren Aronofsky, the film's director, wisely goes the lo-fi, quasi-documentary route, though this was probably due to a lack of big budget more than anything else. But it's such a perfect fit, gritty and raw. Aronofsky (dude behind the most depressing movie ever made, Requiem for a Dream, which I of course adore) kills it as a filmmaker, yes, but I think he's most worthy of applause for bringing such a powerhouse, hold-the-phones performance out of Rourke, a beast of an actor who simply needed the right push from somebody who truly believed he still has the "goods." Which he does, fucking thirty-fold.


Aronofsky and Rourke

Extra kudos sent to screenwriter Robert Siegel for not going the obvious "happy ending" direction, as well. In The Ram's eyes, it is a happy conclusion, but as an audience we realize that it's equal parts of tragic and noble, more than giddy and joyous.

The Wrestler is a flick I can't see myself shaking off for a few days, at the least. For Rourke, it must've been therapeutic, real, "this is my life on film" authentic---when The Ram gives his "I'm an old broken down piece of meat" speeches, you're basically listening to the painful confessions of Rourke himself. For me, the movie was a whole new kind of "visceral" experience, one where gore and disturbing violence are gone and the real world's battering and bruising of it's good-at-heart people is driven right on home.

If you see The Wrestler and aren't the least bit inspired and/or moved, then somebody should finish you off with a "Ram Jam."

[Oh yeah, and the film takes place in the middle-class sections of my beloved North Jersey. One of the strip club patrons even says he's from Garfield. How about that.]

***And this point must be brought back: Marisa Tomei is one of the sexiest actresses of all time. Tack on her underrated skills, and you've got a Hall of Famer in my eyes. For about half of her screen time in The Wrestler she's wearing nothing but a G-string, and her 44-year-old physique puts chicks half her age to unseasoned shame. End of story.

a Conan O'Brien post needs no justification.....

It's Conan, and a ton of celebs, and it's gold. Enjoy:

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

Frost/Nixon, post-screening thoughts....

Really, truly entertaining film. Not one that I thought I'd be as enthused by; in fact, I expected to either fall asleep or slip into a la-la-land full of "what to eat for dinner?" daydreams (chastise if you may, but I can't say that Richie Nixon has ever been a point of interest in my brain; now, though, it's time to play catch-up and DVR some History Channel specials on the guy). But not a second zipped by during Frost/Nixon where I wasn't hooked in, compelled. Ron Howard is always accused of lacking his own personal "directing style," and I've never been an Opie apologist, by any means, but his chameleon-ish touch works wonders here. It's tight, well-directed, nicely-structured. Has some useful flash-forward interviews with some of the key players, giving nice padding to certain plot points. The interview sequences, particularly the final climactic one, are shot like a Rocky endgame in-ring brawl, with clenching facial close-ups and tense-to-battered emotions.



Howard himself has said that he envisions this as "the thinking man's Rocky," and it definitely shows. There's the underdog, David Frost, a celebrity interviewer more known for his chit-chats with the Bee Gees and hosting lavish parties with guests the likes of Michael York, Hugh Hefner, and Neil Diamond; and then there's the champion of sorts, former President Richard Nixon, hot off his resignation due to the Watergate scandal, and mostly out of the public eye, yet harboring an urge to fix his public image somehow, someway.

If stat sheets and resumes were to decide, Frost had no right to even sitdown with Nixon, let alone ever defeat him in a test of wits and reserve. But the underdog defeated the big bad wolf this time, and political history's version of David versus Goliath makes for fun ride of a movie.

Their qualifications and lack-there-of, their areas of expertise and pressure points, and fluffy spots where hits could hurt the most are all set up so well that when it comes down to the revelatory sitdown over Watergate, where Frost has already proven his haters wrong and been trampled by Nixon in their previous three 2-hours interviews, with Frost expectedly throwing softballs Nixon's way and allowing the master-of-command to ramble on and on, controlling their exchanges like a hypnotist, the scene is explosive.

Great acting all around, especially by Frank Langella as Tricky Dick Nixon ("Dick Hixon before he dicks you," as the old joke my dad loves so much goes). He may look absolutely nada like the man, but Langella gives his essence a charge of vulnerability and undeniable charm that you can't help but like Nixon here, even though you're fully aware of the fuckery he's done at the expense of his country. Supporting roles played by the great Sam Rockwell, "The King" himself Oliver Platt "I will crown you!"), and best-when-stoic Kevin Bacon are all successful, and then there's the radiant Rebecca Hall, a gorgeous (and I really mean the word "gorgeous" here; it's honestly the best word for her) talent who always pulls eyes away from everybody else around her (just check her in The Prestige and Vicky Christina Barcelona for evidence).


Full eyes, pouty lips, slender model-like frame....yeah, she's got it.

But again, and I can't stress this enough: this movie surprised the Hades out of me. I went in expecting this year's equivalent to 2007's Charlie Wilson's War, a critically-adored topical drama that just couldn't connect with me. I respected it some, but had no real draw, or energy, while watching. Frost/Nixon, on the other five-fingered-limb, never bored or dragged for yours truly. It had some awkward laughs, even straightforward chuckles, which kept its pulse zooming along, rather than coming off pretentious or condescending via zero humor.

Even if you're not a political head, or history chum, I'd say give Frost/Nixon a look. Comes out this weekend, has my seal of approval (not that my thumbs up means much at this point, I realize).

***A helluva week-and-a-half ahead....The Wrestler tomorrow; Benjamin Button on Wednesday; I Love You, Man on Thursday, Cadillac Records on Friday; and then next Wednesday, Revolutionary Road. Awesome.

some new Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, only for shits and giggles....

Found this on FilmDrunk.com:

Anything that Triumph does is worthwhile. This is some Internet-only clip he put together, where he reunites with one of his more-classic encounter subjects. But again, it's a Triumph video, making it great and worth your time just off GP.



My head hurts now. Best part about this shit, though, is that Mr. Blackwolf is serious. I try not to be mean, to the best of my abilities, but c'mon, man---this fucker is the biggest loser ever, no?

Rose on Milk, three times....

Milk is a superb, quality piece of inspiring biopic filmmaking. But even if you haven't seen it yet, this hour-long compilation of interviews from Charlie Rose's show, with stars Sean Penn and Josh Brolin and director Gus Van Sant, is a flawless watch. Three intriguing, intelligent chaps, chopping it up with an interviewer they all know and respect. Good stuff, but yeah, it's an hour long. If you have the time, give it a gander.

Follow the link.....

Charlie Rose and the artistic muscles behind the great Milk

Netflix Fix --- Miller's Crossing

I'm tired, so nothing in-depth will be said. But yeah, this movie is awesome. It's storytelling like this that seriously sends my mind into need-to-focus overdrive. And then there's the actual filmmaking aspects, all spot-on-the-mark.

A must-see, if you've yet to do so.

***Before watching the following video, do realize that this should, in no way, trivialize the actual film. I just think it's wild that somebody actually thought to score a montage of Miller's Crossing scenes with "Squeeze 1st." If you're the kind of chap who loves both Coen Brothers' movies and Jay-Z tunes, this shit is like tasty fettucine alfredo topped with filet mignon.

And, hell f'n yeah, the scene where Albert Finney's "Leo" thwarts the would-be-assassins with endless tommygun-fire is a thing of violent beauty.

What happens in Vegas, becomes gossip fuel....

Granted, I'm nowhere near the "man" status that George Clooney and Michael Phelps are, so checking in wouldn't guarantee similar results. But it'd be worth a chance, no?

First, Clooney wifed up a hostess from the Palms hotel in Sin City; and now, Phelps is nailing a different Palms hostess. I know Vegas is beaming with fly cocktail waitresses and on-the-floor casino workers, but shit. Seems like the Palms is a goldmine just waiting to be fully tapped into....

Clooney's ex (Sarah Larson)...



Phelps' current main-chick (Caroline "Caz" Pal).....


Look at those dames....fuckin' desirable celebrity bachelors. I'd get little more than a cheap smile and a "tip me, well, asshole" aura.

Another goal, formulated. "Mommy, I wanna bag a Palms Hotel hostess when I grow up."

***Funny semi-related story: A couple years back, some friends and I took a vacay in South Beach, MIA. We stayed at The Royal Palms hotel, right along the water. Great location, reasonably-priced, but our suite was full of malfunctions. The fridge didn't work; the pull-out couch looked like the Grand Canyon (back problem central); and the one bathroom was in the one bedroom, meaning little privacy. Certainly not worth the once-seemingly-reasonable fee we each paid. Being the quick-witted guy I am, I quickly renamed our resting place "The Royal Palmjob." Get it? I thought it was pretty humorous, as did my pals. Whatever.

About Last Night.....

Some basic mathematics for that ass:

Last Night's Equation

The incredibly unique, musically-focused, rapid-fire, insane stand-up of headliner....


+

his own talented live band, Nasty Delicious....

+

the impressive skills of guest drummer....


+

our headliner being joined on stage for a two-song collab with surprise guests....


=



One funny-as-hell, great night of live comedy. With some great friends. Good times, man. Good times.

***BONUS, STARRING THE HEADLINER...JUST 'CAUSE I LOVE Y'ALL SO MUCH:

See more Judd Apatow videos at Funny or Die